


Memories and lies. The last secret.

by Iolanfg



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, False Memories, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Poor Greg Lestrade, Poor Mycroft, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:35:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24829927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolanfg/pseuds/Iolanfg
Summary: JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny adoptions: Greg finds an old file on a missing person one morning. The surprise comes when he discovers that the missing person is Greg himself.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 113
Kudos: 105
Collections: JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions, Mystrade StoryTime, Mystrade is our Division





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are by Doyle, Gatiss and Moffat, the idea is by Paia. I was just passing by...  
> English is not my first language, this was brought in with the help of translator Deepl. Sorry for any mistakes. Thank you for reading!

In hindsight, one of the things that would catch DI Gregory Lestrade's eye would be that day seemed to be like any other day. Well, it's also true that he found the file on his desk at 7.30am, so there hadn't been time for much to happen.  
But when your life is about to take an unexpected turn, when you are about to discover things about your past which will make you rethink your future, it would be useful if there were some sort of premonition, something like an omen: a tickle on the back of your neck, a herd of black cats crossing your path, a flock of crows flying over your head...  
But no. His day had begun as usual: the alarm clock had rung at six in the morning, he had reluctantly parted from the heat of the blankets to get into the shower and had made himself his extra strong coffee with double sugar before leaving for the Yard.  
On the way he received a message from John asking if they would meet that night in the pub. He left it unanswered, wondering if he should send one to Mycroft instead. Despite his promise to keep an eye on him, they'd hardly seen each other since Sherrinford. The man seemed to have locked himself into his world even more than before, and Lestrade was beginning to feel too old for so many lies and so many secrets. And yet... he missed him.  
The thought of Mycroft always gave him a strange feeling of longing, even when they hardly knew each other and Greg was "happily" married. A sense of loss gripped him every time he saw him walk away.  
They started out as allies to keep Sherlock alive, then became something like friends who met occasionally for a drink at his club, chatting about anything. Although they had little in common, they somehow fit into each other's lives. They shared the same sense of humor and love of film noir. The attraction between them was obvious. More than attraction, if he had to be honest. Although she had found other men attractive, he had never been tempted to explore that part of her life that no one knew about. But with Mycroft...  
They felt good together, as if they'd known each other all their lives. Something about Mycroft made him feel safe and secure, comforted.   
Sometimes, it was as if the man knew Greg better than he knew himself.  
And when he thought about it, it was terrifying.  
Sometimes, Greg had a horrible suspicion that there was something sinister about the Major Holmes, that the "British Government" was watching him beyond his need for security.  
How else would Mycroft know the exact temperature at which he liked his water to come out when he took a shower? Or the exact spot where he liked to eat his steak?   
The first time they slept together, a few months after Sherlock's "suicide", he didn't give it much thought. But the next day it occurred to him that knowing that Greg preferred to sleep on the left side of the bed or the place where he was crazy about being bitten during sex was far beyond the Holmes' power of deduction.  
After the detective's return, and the argument it provoked between the two, their relationship had been like a roller coaster. Greg had been on other dates, dates that never amounted to anything and left him empty and alone. Long periods of time passed without seeing each other, interrupted by work meetings, or because of Sherlock, which always ended up in each other's bed.  
No matter how much they repeated that it was a bad idea. It was inevitable. Mycroft's prolonged absence caused him almost physical pain. Approaching him, touching him, or kissing him felt as natural to he as breathing. Apparently, judging by the intensity in the grey eyes that looked at him, the distance was just as difficult for Mycroft to cope with.  
He entered the Yard, trying to get Mycroft out of his thoughts, waving to his team before entering his office.  
The file, old judging by the yellowish shade of the cardboard covers, was on his desk, standing out on the clear table.  
He sat down, frowning at the realization that it was a case from the missing persons division. Evidently, someone had left it there by mistake. Curious, he opened the file. It was an old case, from 1997. The surprise turned to stupor as he read.   
There was a description of the missing person: male, thick brown hair with some silver strands, brown eyes, strong build, square jaw, and twenty-five years old.   
Without understanding, he read the name again: Gregory Alexandre Lestrade. Blinking, he turned the page to find the photograph of a man looking into the camera with a mischievous expression in his eyes and a big happy smile. His own face, twenty years younger, was staring back at him mockingly.  
Thinking it was a joke, he called Sally, who was as surprised as he was. No one could say how the file got on his desk either.   
Annoyed, confused, and intrigued, he went to the missing persons department. It wasn't until he called the elevator that he realized how much his hands were shaking.


	2. Chapter 2

His colleague at the Yard, DI Morris, had been as perplexed as he was to see the file, but he assured him that it was not a forgery. Still, he couldn't find any copies of the complaint in the database.  
\- It doesn't make any more sense to me than it does to you. Maybe you went away for a weekend without notice and someone got worried... You were young then. But why send this to you now? And who?  
\- It doesn't make any sense. The complaint was lodged in Rye. Why would someone look for me in Sussex? I've barely left London. And why isn't the report in the databases? It's ridiculous.  
\- Rye's a lovely little town, but it's not Scotland Yard. Maybe they just forgot to scan it.  
\- Like I said, I've never been there. 1997, was the year of my accident...  
\- What accident?  
\- Oh, nothing special, just a car accident. I don't really remember. I woke up in a hospital, after spending almost a month in a coma. There's a lot of things I don't remember before that. The doctors said the memories would come back, but... Localised amnesia, they said. If anything, that happened in London.  
Greg frowned, remembering those first days after the accident. He didn't really like to talk about it. He hated being unable to remember things. Like when his parents had taken him home and he was unable to remember it. He found it strange that they didn't live in his old working neighborhood, but in a nice residential neighborhood. His parents had to explain to him that they had moved in shortly before the accident, how they had been able to pay for the family house thanks to the inheritance of his mother's aunt, who had bequeathed her money. He also couldn't remember Aunt Nancy.   
His first years of work after the academy were also shrouded in a strange fog.  
He no spoke to no one about these lost memories, much less about the strange dreams he had about cobbled streets, the sound of the sea and the sensation of arms around, a man's laugh sounding quiet and happy in his ear. They were pleasant dreams, in which he felt happy and loved, but which left him with a feeling of loss and nostalgia during the day. Other nights the dreams were nightmares. He was running, in the darkness of the forest, hearing footsteps and seeing the lights of a car approaching. A man's voice, the same one he heard laughing in the other dreams, he was sure although he never saw his face, he shouted his name, scared, asking him to come back. He woke up sweating and panting, and spent the next few days in a strange sadness, with the feeling of having lost something of vital importance.  
\- Well, it seems that someone thought you had disappeared. And he cared enough to file a report. And it also seems that someone wants you to know that.

Unable to get it out of his head, Greg had finally asked for a day off on his own business and had gone to the city where the complaint had been filed, in case the rest of the documentation was still there, a journey of over an hour and a half one way that he had spent so absorbed in thinking, remembering what he had been told about the accident and in the years lost in his memory that he didn't realise he was driving through the streets of Rye automatically, without having to ask where he was going in a city he had never been in.  
The small police station was quiet at this hour and Greg assumed that there would be more hustle and bustle in the middle of the tourist season.   
As at the Yard, his colleagues assured him that the report seemed legitimate, but no trace was found in the records. Finally, the desk officer, who seemed as surprised as Greg, sent him to the desk of a senior officer, who was already at the station at the time, in case he could help him.  
He went over to the officer's desk, introducing himself only as the Yard's DI of Homicide, and showing him the file. The man, who was about five years older than Greg, looked at him suspiciously, barely looking at the document. It didn't take a Holmes to see that the man was defensive.  
\- Why are you asking about this now?  
\- We found this file and...   
\- Are you so bored in London that you're wasting your time with a 20-year-old complaint here?  
\- I didn't know cases had an expiration date.  
The man swallowed, nervous.  
\- There was no case. It was a silly thing to do. A lovers' quarrel or something. They'd only been in town a short time. The guy just took off and forgot to say goodbye. The complaint was withdrawn days later.   
\- That doesn't explain why he's not in the database.  
\- Ugh, they'd forget to file it. Wouldn't be the first. It didn't matter.  
Greg felt he was reaching the end of his tether. Leaning forward in his seat, he took the photograph by placing it in front of the older man, pointing at it.  
\- Look, this guy, it's me. That's my name right there. In 1997, I was in an accident in London. I've never lived here. Yet this morning I found this on my desk. A report that's nowhere to be found for a disappearance that never happened. I just want to know what this is all about. And I know you know more than you're telling me.   
The man turned pale, looking away. After a long silence, he sighed noisily, leaned over to Greg, and began to speak softly.  
\- Okay. Look, I don't know what this is all about. I really don't. Twenty years ago, one night, was walked in by a young guy, tall, you could tell by the way he talked that he was one of those rich kids from London. He said his boyfriend was missing. You know how things were then. They were gay, and young. We thought they might have argued or that the guy had just gone off on a bender with his mates without warning and we didn't care. They weren't from here, they'd only been in town a few months, living in a rented room. We thought the guy would have gotten bored and gone back to the big city. But the kid came back the next day, and the next day, and the next day. Every day for a week. He said that someone had done something to him, that they had taken him away. But nothing he said made any sense. He said something about his family, he was sure they'd found him and hurt him. He even talked about the forest, some crushed leaves, tire marks and bloodstains. He was so insistent that we finally filed a report and opened an investigation. And just as we were about to start questioning the neighbours... Well, the chief called us into his office, my partner and I. Inside was a elegant, well-dressed guy with an umbrella. The guy smelled power. There was also the boy who had come to report the disappearance, although I had trouble recognizing him. He looked older, he was... Before, his eyes used to shine, his expression was anxious, worried, but that day there was no expression on his face. His eyes looked dead. The guy smiled at us, apologized for the inconvenience caused, say that the young man had made a mistake, that it had all been a confusion. It was all smiles and kindness, but he was scary. He was so... Cold. I don't know, there was something about him that... The boy repeated it, apologized and said it had been a mistake, like an automaton. I didn't believe it. But the report was filed. I looked for the boy days later but he was gone too. The worst thing is that... When I asked for him at the address he had left, nobody could tell me anything, they just vanished, first one and then the other, overnight. They talked about a big black car and some strange guys, but... The next day I found an envelope with a lot of money in my mailbox, with a note that said it was good to forget. So yes, I don't know what happened to you, Mr Lestrade, but I'm afraid you disappeared in 1997. And someone paid handsomely for that mystery to remain unsolved.

Greg left the station even more confused than before. He walked through the narrow cobblestone streets, feeling strangely familiar. Without realizing it, he arrived at the location indicated as the report's contact.   
It was a small, well-preserved Tudor-style house nestled between two other identical buildings. He could hear the seagulls from there. Shaking his head, he rang the bell. A smiling woman greeted him. After introducing herself as a detective at the Yard, she brought him in, telling him that his mother, the previous owner of the house, had unfortunately died, but that she vaguely remembered the two young men, who had rented the room in the attic, so many years before, when she was a little girl.  
\- They had just arrived in town, they were very nice. Greg, the missing boy, was very funny, I remember he played with me when he could. And he always made his friend laugh. The other boy, I don't remember his name, Greg always called him M, he was tall and quiet, very kind but a bit more reserved and nervous. They both found jobs right away, and we hoped they'd stay, they were a big help at home. Are you all right?  
Greg took a deep breath, trying to focus his attention on the young woman while in the back of his mind the image of a little girl, sitting on the floor, surrounded by colorful paintings, was showing someone a drawing, laughing. The laughter of the man of her dreams echoed as well. It was a fuzzy image, and it faded quickly. He cleared his throat slightly.  
\- Yes, yes, go on, please.  
\- As I say, I was very small then, so I don't really know what happened. One day a black car appeared, I remember it took up most of the street, and a man in a suit came down. M was at home, and he came out, looking scared. They argued. When Greg came back, M told him they had to leave. There was some screaming in the room, they must have fought, and Greg left. We never saw him again. M looked everywhere for him. A few days later, the black car came back, the same man came to talk to M, and that same day he said goodbye to us, picked up his belongings and left with him. 

\- Do you remember the man's name? or if he said where they were going?  
\- I seem to remember him telling my mother that they were going back to London. The man kept looking at her, and it was a bit scary. But M gave me a message when she hugged me to say goodbye. I haven't forgotten that. She said, "If he comes back, tell him he knows where to find me."


	3. Chapter 3

The return trip was fast, more focused on his thoughts than on the road. None of it made any sense. How could he have disappeared in a place where he'd never been? Yet what he felt in that place... And who was "M"? Some old friend he had forgotten? Where had he gone? Maybe he had been in trouble and thought that by giving his name he would be called and Greg could help him? He was only a sergeant in London at the time. On the other hand, he could only think of one person when they were talking about mysterious black cars. But it was absurd, they didn't even know each other then. It wasn't until eight years later that he met...   
The buzzing of the cell phone brought him back to the present just as he was parking in front of his house.   
\- Hey, Molly. I'm not at work right now, so...  
\- Hi, Greg. I know. I was just calling to tell you that I checked and couldn't find the information you asked for.  
Greg frowned, puzzled.  
\- I didn't ask for any information, Molly, you must have been mistaken.  
\- I got your message this morning, and I had to pull some strings. You know how it is with data protection.   
\- Molly, really, I don't know what you're talking about.  
\- The information about your accident. The one you needed for your investigation. They haven't found anything, no date of entry or anything relating to an accident at that time. Your history is extensive, but it's all related to common illnesses or work stuff: a gunshot wound, stab wounds, but otherwise... Are you sure they brought you to Barts? Greg, are you there?  
Greg's confusion was growing. He remembered waking up in that hospital, remembering the doctor giving his diagnosis and then... Then he remembered being taken home to his parents. Nothing in between. And he certainly hadn't called the hospital and left a message for Molly.  
\- Uh, yeah, yeah, okay, don't worry, I must have made a mistake. I... I have to go. Thank you, Molly. I'll talk to you later.  
Stunned, he hung up. I was still trying to process the information when the phone rang again, with a text message this time.  
I hope this case is of interest to you. It's the most important one you'll ever be able to solve. S.H.  
Cursing for not thinking about it sooner, he called Sherlock. He answered the second ring.  
\- Damn it, Sherlock! This is your idea of a joke?  
\- Should I know what you're talking about?  
\- You forged the documents and put them on my desk, didn't you? Did you have fun watching me walk around? By the way, how did you get everyone to act for you?  
\- Wrong. Yeah, I put them on your desk, since no one else was going to. But as you may have been told, the documents are true. You disappeared in 1997, and a few years of your life disappeared. It's up to you whether or not you want them back.  
Greg was unable to find the words for a moment. He had never told him about his accident or the years he could barely remember Sherlock. The young detective had never shown any interest in his past either.  
\- What the hell are you talking about, Sherlock!?  
\- I'm afraid I can't help you solve this case, Greg. You'll have to do it yourself.   
\- Why are you doing this?  
\- Because someone had to. Because it's time to put secrets behind you. And why you weren't the only one who disappeared that night. Find your answers, and maybe we can find someone else. Someone who's been missing for so long that he doesn't even realize it.  
\- What the hell?  
\- How long has it been since you visited your old neighborhood? The answer's always close to home.  
\- What?  
The call ended and Greg ran his hands over his face, frustrated and cursing the Holmes and their cryptic messages.


	4. Chapter 4

The old working-class neighborhood he grew up in was exactly the same: the same old buildings of official protection standing up for some miracle, the tarnished park with just a couple of swings and some weeds growing out of control, every wall covered with graffiti and the same smells, people rushing back and forth, giving suspicious looks to strangers, children playing, mothers juggling shopping bags and baby trolleys and elderly people strolling and chatting, Giving him sideways looks. It didn’t matter that he was born there, he’d been gone so long that he was a stranger among his own.  
He walked around for a long time, remembering childhood friends, football games with empty cans, and his first kiss with a girl, Mary Jo Adams, on a doorway, until a voice called out to him.  
\- Lestrade? Greg Lestrade?  
It took him a few minutes to recognise Mrs Tyler, his old neighbour. She, too, seemed to be having difficulty seeing in that silver-haired man the scruffy, somewhat hooligan child he'd been. Greg smiled.  
\- Oh, it's been a long time, Greg. How are you? What brings you here? You're not working, are you? Come on, come and have a chat, I was just going home for a cup of tea and cookies.  
Greg understood the prying eyes better. They must have recognized him from the newspapers, of course. A homicide detective walking around the neighborhood shouldn't be there for anything good. Taking the old lady's bags, he went into her old building.  
\- So, what did those punks do this time? I'm sure they're Mrs. Desmont's grandchildren...  
\- Oh, no. I'm not working. Just... remembering. Old times and all that.  
\- Oh, come on. I don't think you'll miss this. It's not the best place to live. You look pretty good, though. How about your parents? Did you patch things up with them, in the end? It was very sad what they did... A son is a son, and you love him just the way he is.  
The woman patted him on the arm for comfort. Greg smiled, shaking his head at the absurd rumors the bored neighbors tended to make up.  
\- My mother is fine. Dad passed away a couple of years ago. But whatever I heard, it's not true. There was never any trouble between us.  
\- Oh, it's lovely that you've forgiven them. I'm sorry to hear about your father, and I hope the Lord has forgiven him too and welcomed him into His kingdom. It's not right to speak ill of the dead. But what he did is not right. I still remember that night, the shouting and slamming of the doors... the old woman shuddered... You don't throw a son out of the house because he's gay. If God created them, it's because he wants them that way.  
For the umpteenth time on that endless day, Greg was stumped. His parents didn't know he was gay. He had never been with a man, other than Mycroft, and by then his father was dead and his mother knew nothing about it. He wouldn't define himself as gay. Yes, he had been attracted to some men at one time but he assumed that was the case for all of them. His ex-wife found other women attractive too, and that didn't mean she was in the least attracted to them.  
\- Mrs. Tyler, you must be confused. I'm not gay, and my parents didn't kick me out of the house, I...  
\- Greg, you fell asleep on that same couch that night until your friend came looking for you. How can you not remember? Have you had a problem with drugs? Alcohol maybe? A lot of cops can't handle stress, and...  
\- What? No! I don't... I had an accident, there are things that don't...  
\- Oh, you poor thing. Maybe your brain eliminated what happened, I read that it can happen after a trauma... Anyway, I'm glad you guys worked things out. Your mother barely said goodbye before she moved out, but we still remember you guys around here.  
\- I'm sorry, but could you tell me what happened? Well, I can't remember, and...  
The old woman looked at him with pity, giving him a warm smile  
\- I don't know, maybe it's better that way, the bad things are better forgotten... Besides, it's not worth it anymore... Oh, I see you haven't lost the ability to make puppy eyes, that's good. How much don't you remember?  
\- Mmm... Nothing?  
\- Oh, for God's sake... It's all right. I remember that night like it was yesterday. You had come to visit your parents. Your mother was so happy you came after all this time, she spent days talking about you coming home...  
\- Sorry, coming home from where?  
\- Well, I don't remember exactly where you were stationed when you finished at the academy. But your parents were very proud of you. We barely saw you here for three years, but your mother kept talking about how well your career was going and how busy you were.  
Mrs. Tyler gave him a proud grandmother's smile and Greg drank his tea, trying to make sense of it all. He'd never worked anywhere but London.  
\- Fine. And then?  
\- That night I started to hear screaming and banging. A door opened, I heard your father shouting horrible things and slamming the door. I opened the door to my house and there you were, on the landing, with a bruised face and crying. It took me years to speak to your parents again,- Mrs. Tyler misinterpreted Gregg's astonished gesture.- I cured your bruises myself and offered to let you stay with me as long as you wanted.  
But you asked to use my telephone and when you hung up you seemed much calmer, illusioned even. We chatted a little, I told you they'd be quieter in the morning and you could talk. But you were determined to leave. It was late, you fell asleep for a while and then your "friend" came to get you. A young and very educated boy, handsome too. He looked worried. You both hugged and I thought you were perfect together.  
\- Do you remember that... boy's name?  
\- Oh... No, I'm sorry. He was only here a few minutes, and you were both very agitated. His attention was focused exclusively on you. He was tall, a little younger than you, red hair, and well dressed. I can't tell you more, I'm sorry.  
\- And after that my parents moved out?  
Maybe they had argued about something, although it would be strange, they had always gotten along very well, and the accident made them reconcile, Greg thought. Still, who the hell would that kid be? The mysterious "M"? But Mrs. Tyler shook her head.  
\- No, dear. That was about years later. I remember why it was a few days after the birth of my granddaughter. 1997.  
\- That was the year of my accident. I didn't... I don't remember living anywhere else but here before that. There must be some mistake...  
\- It's funny. Your mother never told me anything about an accident. Although they didn't talk much about you, after... One day a moving truck came and I saw them taking their stuff out of the flat. I asked and she said they were moving. She was very happy. The truth is, she seemed much happier since that man showed up...  
\- What man?  
\- I don't know who he was. I only met him a couple of times, a tall man with a stretched out look. But he caused quite a stir in the neighborhood. He came in with a big black car with tinted windows. The kids went running to see him. You really don't remember any of this, Greg?  
The detective closed his eyes, flashes of images overlapping in his subconscious, a face distorted by screams similar to his father's face, a flash of coppery hair and a carefree laugh, a soft, funny voice saying, "You know where to find me, Gregory.  
\- Greg?  
\- I'm sorry, I... I have a headache.  
\- Sure, it's just so many things. It must be a long day for you... Wait a minute.

Unable to say anything, Greg nodded his head, as the woman went to get more tea and some ibuprofen.  
After a few more minutes of small talk, Greg said goodbye, thinking about what to do next. He had never been in a fight with his parents, much less been thrown out of the house. He lived with them until he met Lisa, almost a year after their accident. None of it made any sense. His hands were shaking so badly that he dropped his car keys a couple of times before he could open the door. He called Mycroft, but it went to voice mail.  
\- Mycroft, it's me, Greg. Look I... I'm having a weird day and I needed to talk to you, just... Call me back, okay? Please.  
After a few minutes, his cell phone vibrated with a text message

Let it go, Gregory. The past is not a good place to live. And you can never go back to it. MH

Frowning, he called again, but the phone was off. Cursing, he rested his head on the backrest, closing his eyes trying to relieve his headache. His phone rang again with a new text message, this time from Sherlock. Instead of a text, he found an image. The document, with a photo of him in one of the margins and dated February 1992, confirmed the entry of police officer Gregory Alexander Lestrade into service at Thames Valley police station in Oxford.  
A second text arrived minutes later, this time with a name, Matthew Connors, and a telephone number.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft turned off his phone, sighing wearily as he returned to the meeting. "I should have drowned him as a child in the bathtub," he thought for the umpteenth time. Curious how life could be such a huge contradiction. You could spend half your life trying to save someone's life and the other half wanting to strangle them. Especially if that person was Sherlock Holmes.  
"Let it go, Gregory. The past is not a good place to live. And you can't go back to it."  
He knew it didn't make sense. Gregory could be almost as stubborn as his little brother. But it was the only thing he could do. Gregory's life had been quiet and happy, he had had a good family who loved him and were always proud of him, loyal friends and even a happy marriage, until his wife decided to be unfaithful to him in the end. He had no right to steal that from him. Too much had already been taken from him. The past could catch up with you, you could spend the rest of your life reliving what it was. He would cast doubt on his entire existence, wondering what was true and what was not. Greg was happy, with no memories or fears. Sherlock had no right to ruin that.  
Mycroft knew well what it was like to live in the past. He had spent his whole life being her prisoner. The best place in the world, and his personal torture chamber, all at once.

***  
He looked at the screen for so long that the letters ended up becoming blurred. He remembered perfectly his graduation, his first day at the Yard, how proud his parents had been that he was following the family tradition of joining the force. But it seemed that his memories were not as reliable as he had always thought. Either that, or someone had spent a fortune on playing the biggest and most bizarre prank in history.  
Knowing it would be futile to try and contact Sherlock, the DI focused on the other mystery of the day. Matthew Connors. However hard he tried, the name didn't ring a bell. He wondered if it was the famous "M" in Rye.  
The voice that answered the phone introduced itself as DI Connors and had no problem recognising Lestrade's name.  
\- Greg!? Is it really you?! I can't believe it, it's been ages! I thought we'd get your body out of the Thames one day, until I saw you on the news, the great DI Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard.  
Surprised by the emotion in the man's voice, he had trouble finding the words to explain his call. For some reason, telling someone he couldn't remember him and then asking him if they had ever been anything like lovers didn't sound right.  
\- Yes, I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Connors, but...  
\- Sir? Really? For God's sake, the nicest thing you've ever called me was fucking red bastard.  
The man's laughter and good humor were almost contagious.  
\- Red?  
\- Well, he used to have red hair. When he had hair. But I don't think you called me here to mess with my looks. How are you? I thought you left the police.  
\- What!? No, of course not, why would I do something like that  
\- Yeah, well, you know, with all the scandal... I've missed you, you know. I couldn't believe you disappeared the way you did. I looked for you, you know? I was so worried. But... I always hoped you'd come back...  
Greg swallowed, trying to connect that voice to the one in his dreams, more and more convinced that that DI from Oxford was M.  
\- Yeah, well, I... I was wondering if it would be possible for us to meet and talk. It's important.  
The man seemed to notice the tension in his voice why he responded in a rather more serious tone, telling him that he would cancel everything and that they could meet for dinner if he could travel to Oxford that very night. Looking at the time, he was surprised to discover that it was almost six o'clock in the evening. Exhausted, he agreed, deciding to go home and take a shower and clear his head. It seemed to him that he'd been in the car for years.  
He went back over everything he had found out, and everything still didn't make any sense. He called Sally, who informed him that it had been a quiet day and asked him to keep her updated on what he found out.  
When he got home, the black car was parked in front of his building, and for some reason he felt his anger grow. Mycroft got out at the same time as him, pale and looking more nervous than Greg had ever seen him.  
\- Inspector... Gregory, I think we need to talk...  
\- You think so? Really? - Mycroft retreated slightly when he shouted, but he signalled the driver to stay where he was. Greg shook the file in front of him. - Do you know what this is all about?  
\- Yeah. I, if you'll let me...  
\- No! you're not going to get in my head with your speeches and your lies. I talk, you listen and you answer yes or no, okay?  
After a few seconds, Mycroft nodded sharply, swallowing his spit.  
\- Did we know each other before my meeting with Sherlock?  
Looking down at the floor, Mycroft nodded.  
\- London? Oxford?  
Again, Mycroft nodded, exhaling.  
\- Did it have anything to do with the job?  
\- Yes, it did at first...  
\- Do you have any idea why I can't remember any of that?  
\- Greg...  
\- Answer!  
\- Yes.  
\- Did your family...? - the idea came to him suddenly, making him pale. - Did your sister have anything to do with it?  
Mycroft answered so low that more than listening Greg guessed the answer.  
\- Yes.  
Greg took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to shake the man.  
\- So it's all true? Oxford, Rye, my parents...?  
\- Yes.  
\- Sherlock knew all along?  
\- No. He knew something was up. I guess he put the pieces together after Sherrinford. Listen, I...  
\- Do you know who M is?  
For the first time, the elder Holmes looked at him, as if he had hit him.  
\- Yes.  
\- Was he... my partner?  
\- Yes.  
\- Did I love him?  
\- Yes. I think you did. I mean, there was a moment when I doubted it but...  
\- I Did he care?  
\- More than he ever cared about anything or anyone. Gregory, please...  
Greg decided to ignore the sadness in Mycroft's voice, telling himself he was not willing to be manipulated again.  
\- In short, for some strange reason I worked with you, found someone who made me happy and the Holmes decided to take him away from me and let a psychopath play with my brain?  
\- Gregory...  
\- Yes or no!?  
\- You don't understand...  
\- No, it's true. I don't get it. I thought we were... At least I thought we were friends and... But no, the Iceman has no friends, he doesn't care about anyone but himself.  
\- That's not true, please, can we go upstairs and talk?  
\- You've had over a decade to talk, Mycroft! Years! Years of nights of watching to see if Sherlock could live another day, years of going to bed together! And you've never found a minute to talk! And now you expect me to believe you? No, I'm going to find out what this is all about, if it's the last thing I do.  
Greg turned to go up to the house, angrier and more confused than he had ever felt before.  
\- Gregory, please.  
\- No! Don't come near me again.  
He walked away, never seeing the man standing on the sidewalk again, shaking. He had an appointment at Oxford. With the man who made his feel loved and protected in her dreams, dreams that he wanted to last forever, so as not to lose that feeling, even though he had never seen him. With the man he didn't remember.


	6. Chapter 6

He had just sat down in the corner of the bar, near Oxford Police Station, a small, clean place where one could eat at reasonable prices. He was looking at the door, wondering if he'd recognise Matthew. He assumed he did, apparently they'd shared a lot of things...  
Te phone rang, and he responsed up, ignoring the part of her mind that was disappointed that the call wasn't from Mycroft.  
\- Greg? - John's voice sounded worried-- what's going on? Is everything okay?  
\- Yeah... Sort of. I just found out some things and I don't really know... Is Sherlock there?  
\- No. He's out. He's been acting strange all day. Which is a lot to say for Sherlock. He's been working on something outside London these days, but he won't tell me what it is. I know it has something to do with his brother.  
\- Mycroft commissioned he to look into this?  
\- No. I don't think so. It seems rather that Sherlock has decided to get into Mycroft's business without asking. For a change.  
\- Have you seen him?  
\- Mycroft? Yes, he was here this afternoon. He looked nervous, exhausted. He even raised his voice to Sherlock. To him that's something of a display of extreme rage. He was shouting at him, telling him he had no right to do that, whatever "it" is, and that he wasn't going to let it ruin his life again... or yours. Are you in trouble because of Sherlock?  
Greg bit his lips, for some reason he didn't want to tell John that Sherlock wasn't the one who ruined his life, but the Sherlock's psycho sister and manipulative brother those who did it . John would be a sympathetic ear, but for some reason he didn't want to hear the doctor ranting against Mycroft. He wondered again if he should have let the man speak. But the civil servant had a special talent for twisting words...  
\- No, not at all. He found out something and told me. Give me headaches and make me lose years of life, yes, but to ruin my life... Mycroft was just exaggerating.  
\- Yeah, he likes to dramatize. But... I'm a little worried. He didn't seem himself. I asked Sherlock what that was about and he just said that Mycroft was right, that it was all his fault and he had to fix it... I think he's worried about him. Not that he'll admit it.  
He said goodbye to John thinking the conversation between the brothers, when the phone vibrated with a new message:  
'I'm really sorry, Gregory, I really am. I never meant for this to happen' MH  
The arrival of a tall, burly man interrupted what was to be an angry response from Greg. Or a request to forget all this and continue as they were before this endless day, with their quiet life full of happy memories. He hadn't had time to decide.  
\- Greg!? God, I can't believe it!  
The DI stood up and the man ignored his outstretched hand to give him a hug instead.  
\- Come on, look at you. You look great! I'm glad you're here. Come on, I want to know everything. I've seen you so many times on the news, I've been bragging about you, I hope you don't mind, but...  
Greg, who had been rehearsing his meeting on the way, watched the man, listening to his cheerful peroration, and had no trouble imagining him as someone who would be his friend. More than that, even. He would just like to know who he was. The arrival of the dinner provoked a little silence.  
\- I thank you for agreeing to see me. I know you have questions, but there's something I need to know. I hope you don't think it's cruel but just... I had some kind of accident and there are things I don't remember and... It seems like you and I were very close...

The man looked at him, raising an eyebrow.  
\- Yes. Of course. After all we've been through together...  
Greg took a deep breath, taking the DI's words as confirmation of his theory.  
\- So, you... You're 'M'?  
Matthew looked at him for a moment, puzzled. Then he laughed.  
\- What? Sorry, I.... No, of course I'm not M. Are you serious? I mean, I can't believe you could forget him...  
Greg felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment.  
\- I'm sorry I... I only discovered his existence this morning, your name begins with M, I thought...  
\- But Greg... It's not that I don't believe you, but it's strange. I mean, even if your accident made you forget what happened between you, I was convinced you were still in touch. It can happen, but... I really thought you two had made it. After all, you work with his brother.  
It took Greg a hundredth of a second to remember that breathing was essential.  
\- What?  
\- Yeah, you know. You were in the newspapers. Greg Lestrade and private detective Sherlock Holmes. Well, it's not a usual name, so I thought it might be Mycroft's brother.


	7. Chapter 7

\- Are you okay?  
\- M... M is Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes?  
\- Haha. Yeah. He hated all the diminutives we looked up, so you finally started calling him that.  
\- You... know Mycroft?  
\- Of course I do. I met you here in Oxford. Both of you.   
Greg showed him the file with the missing persons report, telling him what he knew or thought he knew about those years of his life and what he'd found out.  
\- I'm sorry, can you explain everything to me from the beginning? Because I've had a crazy day and I think I need the whole story, please.  
The man looked at him, undecided, for a moment.  
\- It's okay. I don't know everything, though, Greg. Let's go to my place. My wife has gone to see my daughter in town. I think we're gonna need some more beer and some cigarettes for this.

************

The house never looked so much like a mausoleum to him as it did that night. When Uncle Rudy left it to him as an inheritance, just a few months before the first meeting between Sherlock and Greg, along with most of his fortune, everyone saw it as a great gift for his favorite nephew. Especially when compared to the four trinkets Sherlock inherited, a show of contempt for the way of life led by his irresponsible and disobedient little nephew.  
Mycroft knew it was just a useless and shallow way of saying sorry.  
He should have given it up. Or sold out long ago. But for him it was a reminder that he could have everything but the one thing he wanted. Because that's what everyone who knew him thought, that he had everything: the money, the power and the influence. No one seemed to realize that no matter how big the cage was, it was still a cage.  
There were times when it felt almost like home, of course. The days and nights Greg had spent there. But then, when he left, it seemed even more empty and bleak.  
But Greg not coming back . It had been stupid to think that he could ever get back what he once had, the only thing that made him feel alive, loved, safe.   
Greg was in Oxford now. He could have avoided it. He could have called Matthew, he could have issued warnings and threats. Part of him had wanted to rebel and safeguard the only thing he had left, the only thing that belonged to him alone, but he was too tired. All he had wanted in his life was for those he loved not to suffer needlessly. It seemed that he could not even achieve that.  
If only Sherlock had just moved on with his life, his new family and his friends and left him alone... But no, the "adult" in the family had had to pry into his life, ready to expose every last one of his ghosts. No matter how much damage he might cause.   
He loved his brother. He would trust him on almost any job-related issue. But personally... he tried, he really had. Most of the time he understood, Sherlock had been so young then, he felt so alone and misunderstood. Other days, the resentment made him want to beat him until his knuckles bled. Like that day, in his office, just after his parents left the office after discovering the existence of Eurus. Fortunately or unfortunately, the blasts temperamental were commonplace in his little brother’s, or in Greg, but not he.

"I've been looking at Eurus' record. And Uncle Rudy's notes. You know I was never very interested in him, but... I found something funny looking through his papers."  
Mycroft gave her his best unexpressed look.  
"Yeah?"  
"Yes. You see, it turns out that in addition to the horrible museum you call home, Uncle Rudy bought a nice townhouse in a residential neighborhood. A very nice, quiet one, but certainly not the kind of neighborhood that someone like him would set foot in. Much less to live in."  
"Sherlock, if you don't mind, I have some work to do. Much more important things to worry about than Uncle Rudy's real estate investments."  
"Oh, but this is an interesting investment. You see, it turns out that the house was bought by Rudy, and then it was put into the name of Mr Anthony and Mrs Margaret Lestrade. The parents of our esteemed DI Lestrade. What do you always say about fate not being lazy?"  
Mycroft clenched his fists, cursing himself for not being careful enough to wipe away all traces of his uncle.  
"Leave Gregory out of this."  
"Gregory? Interesting. We've already agreed that secrets are no good, Mycroft. Do you want to explain to me why Uncle Rudy bought a house for Lestrade's parents eight years before Lestrade and I met? And how they went from being in the red to having a small fortune in the bank?"  
"I have nothing to explain to you, Sherlock. Please leave it alone."  
I knew there was nothing to be done, Sherlock had already adopted that expression that he acquired when faced with a strange and fascinating crime. He turned to leave.  
"No, I don't think I will."  
"Sherlock, please. I'll do whatever you want, I'll get out of your life if that's what you want, but leave Greg alone."  
He didn't mind losing what little dignity he had left by pleading with his brother, but Sherlock simply left the office, without another word.  
He had kept his brother and Lestrade under surveillance, without intervening, hoping that the reconstruction of Baker Street, the move of Dr Watson and his daughter and the visits to Eurus would distract the detective. But it hadn't been enough.  
Somehow Sherlock had circumvented the surveillance and gone to Oxford, following the same route he and Greg had taken years ago, until he arrived in Rye and took over the file in which he had reported the DI missing.   
Of course, it was only Mycroft's fault. He should never have allowed Sherlock to work with Greg. But he'd been desperate then, willing to do anything to stop his brother turning up one day in a filthy drug house with a needle in his arm, dead from an overdose. And the idea of being close to Greg, even though it would kill him inside, had been too tempting. He told himself for years that he could handle it, that they would have a professional relationship and that he would never again drag Gregory into the madness that was his family. Their meetings were few and far between, their conversations only involved Sherlock or work. And that's the way it should have stayed.  
But Mycroft had been weak. He had succumbed to Greg's attempts at informal conversation, to his friendly smile, to the occasional invitation to a drink. He should have stayed out of it. He should have avoided the DI when he approached him after Sherlock's funeral, sad and feeling guilty. But he couldn't. He just wanted to hold him and comfort him, tell him the truth, ask he to forgive he for, once again, causing him nothing but trouble and suffering. He knew the sensible thing to do was to walk away. But Rudy had been dead for years, Sherlock was gone, Eurus was locked up and he... He was alone, and he wanted to know if Greg's hands on his skin felt as soft and warm as before, if his lips tasted as good as he remembered. It was even better.  
At least he'd have that, he thought. he'd have more memories to lock himself into that would help him both move on and torture himself at the same time. Everything would be fine.


	8. Chapter 8

\- You arrived in 1992, fresh out of the academy. They put us to work together and we got along just fine. We were both very young and the live it was very quiet here. Some college fights, some domestic conflicts... we wanted to go to the big city, where the big things were happening. Now you can appreciate the tranquillity, but when you was twenty... We had quite a lot of free time actually, to study and to go out to the pubs. You were a real heartbreaker. Very temperamental, too. As I say, it was and is a very quiet place. One day, one of the teachers was found dead in his office. It looked like a natural death. Open and shut case. Weeks later, a senior died in a freak accident in her dorm room. However, shortly after that, some government guys showed up. Oxford is the place where the masters of the world send their children, the future masters of the world, to study and build relationships of interest. There's almost more politics here than in Parliament. They didn't give us much detail. A first-year student had discovered that some strange things were happening in there, and that the apparent natural death of the teacher and the accidental death of the girl had not been such. The investigation would be conducted discreetly by MI5, as there were very important people involved, but they needed someone to protect the witness outside the university.  
\- They wouldn't let us investigate but they would make us into babysitters? That sounds familiar.

\- Haha. Of course, being the newcomers, it was our turn. You were furious. But not as angry as the boy. He was the nephew of an important guy, a genius, by all accounts, lonely and conceited. Almost all the students live in the residences, or in apartments near their schools. He had his own rental house, not very big, by the canal. Someone had tried to break in there, so we were offered a lot of extra money to move into one of the spare rooms and keep an eye on him. When we got to the house he barely looked at us, which I think was lucky, because I have always thought that he has the power to freeze a heart with his eyes. He kept repeating to his uncle that if the police hadn't been unable to do their job, there would have been no need for that, that those of us who needed a babysitter to help us cross the street holding hands were us.  
\- Yes, that's Mycroft, all right.  
\- You were furious. You started shouting at him that he was a spoiled brat who was probably making it up to get attention. He turned to us and started saying things he had no way of knowing. He talked about your date the night before, and how many pints I had drunk, he told you to stop seeking your father's approval and to grow up, things that no one could have told him. I was stunned, and you were outraged. His uncle was just standing there, smiling, proud. "Oh, come on, you can't make me spend time with them!." Mycroft was eighteen and already a crafty, dumb bastard. Somehow, he became our idiot. You moved into one of his rooms until the case was cleared up. You drove each other crazy, I've never seen two people with less in common than you and Mycroft.  
\- Yeah. He can drive anyone crazy...   
\- Actually, I think he was the adult of the two. Don't look at me like that! Haha. In the end he protected you and me more than we protected him, deducing our flirtations and his intentions at first glance.   
Matthew smiled wistfully, and Greg found himself smiling too.  
\- Well, he's still reading people, but he's learned to keep secrets. Too many of them.  
\- You used to argue all the time, like an old married couple. It was fun, actually. You could spend all night talking about him, cursing and complaining about the thousand wrongs you put up with a day. I think I noticed that you liked him before you did. When the case was solved and those responsible were arrested, you stayed there. No one was surprised. The house was big and your salary wasn't very high. Mycroft's uncle was relieved that someone was looking after his nephew, that he had something like a friend. He wasn't very popular. There were many who wished to associate with him out of interest, but he used to chase them away quickly. He was deadly with words. Many were afraid of him. It was as if he could read the dirtiest secrets of your soul. I do not know when everything began to change between you. You hardly ever came to the pub, you spent most of your time with him. That Christmas he stayed here, and you didn't go to London. You confessed to me months later. You were scared to death, afraid he'd disown you or something. But you didn't have to tell me, I'd never seen you so happy, so calm. And Mycroft seemed much more confident, more accessible, less secretive. Somehow, you fit in. It was like there was no one else around when you were together. You were good for each other. Almost three years went by. One day, you came and told us you were going to tell your parents. We were already sergeants, Mycroft would soon finish his studies and he'd have to go to London. You wanted to apply for a transfer to be with him. I encouraged you, I didn't see where the problem was. Mycroft told you not to do it, that it was better to wait, settle in London and then... You got angry, you thought he was ashamed of you or your family. I think he just had a less idealized view of your family than you did.  
\- Yeah, so I've been told...   
\- You were depressed for weeks when you came back. You knew it would be difficult for them to accept it, but you didn’t expect them to be homophobic. The approval of your parents was always important to you, make them proud… They were difficult months, but you overcame them. You and Mycroft were closer than ever.   
His colleague's face darkened, lost for a moment in his own memories and Greg swallowed, exhausted.  
\- But...  
\- One day Mycroft's uncle showed up. It was 1995. He found out you were together.The rich and powerful are... You know, you can clean their silverware, but you can't eat with it. He told Mycroft that he was throwing away his future, that a lot was expected of him, and that you were going to ruin his life.They argued. Mycroft was twenty-one, and he had his own little fortune, inherited from his grandmother, he couldn't force him to come home. But if he could make your lives... difficult. Especially yours, Greg. They started sending you jobs below your professional grade, giving you guards and overtime. Every complaint against you, however small, the superiors investigated them as if they were terrible crimes. You were put under a lot of pressure, Greg. You were demoted from sergeant to officer again. You were irascible and frustrated. You lost your temper and you punched him some asshole sergeant who made a comment about fags who needed to find rich, stupid boyfriends to keep them. You were suspended. You decided to leave the force. You said it didn't matter, that you'd find something. But every time you were accepted on a job, when it was time to sign the contract, the offer was cancelled. No one would give you a job, and Mycroft was convinced his uncle was behind it all. He was finishing his studies and working as a translator, you loved each other, Greg, very much, but you started resenting him, you couldn't stand that he was the only one bringing money into the house, even though he knew it was his family's fault and he kept apologising and trying to make things right. Mycroft said you'd be better off without him. You didn't want to hear it. For a year you were like that. Constant arguments and reconciliations. And then one morning, you and Mycroft had left town and disappeared without a trace. Mycroft's uncle turned up at the police station, furious, demanding to know where you were, and there was quite a ruckus. All of us was questioned, we were kept under surveillance in case you contacted any of us. I didn't hear from you again until two years later. Mycroft called me in 1997, from Rye, asking if I'd heard from you, if you'd gone back to Oxford. He sounded scared. It worried me. Days later he called me back, apologised, said you were in London, and that you were fine. I didn't quite believe him, he didn't sound like himself. Years later I saw you in the papers with that Sherlock Holmes guy. That's all I know, Greg. That you loved Mycroft and that he loved you, and that his family did everything they could to separate the two of you but I don't know what happened after you left here. I'm sorry.


	9. Chapter 9

It was almost mid-morning when he said goodbye to Matthew, thanking him for his help and promising to keep in touch. It was almost two o'clock in the morning when they finished talking and his old/new friend asked him to sleep over in the guest room. They had caught up over breakfast, Matthew telling him about his family and telling anecdotes of the time he and Mycroft shared at Oxford. Before he left, he gave her some photographs that he kept. He and Matthew smiled as they looked at the camera, happy, Mycroft next to them, with his head resting on Greg's shoulder, a shy smile on his lips. In a city park, he and Mycroft were lying on the grass, Mycroft with his head resting on Greg's chest, smiling happily as Greg looked at him lovingly. Photos that showed a domesticity and complicity that Greg only remembered feeling in his dreams.  
Although things were beginning to make sense, he still felt betrayed and adrift. He had trusted Mycroft, he had believed that Mycroft trusted him. And, from the beginning, the elder Holmes had manipulated him, laughing at him, knowing things that even he didn't know. But those images... It wasn't mockery or lies they reflected. Mycroft looked at him with an expression of utter adoration. What on earth had happened between them so that Mycroft had consented to their manipulating his memories, erasing him from his past?  
The memories he had before 1997 had begun to fade, while other images overlapped: A younger Matthew smiling at him from a pub bar, pointing to someone in the distance, the impassive face of a man in a suit and who he assumed was Rudy,a young man lying face down on a bed, asleep, with the sheets surrounding his waist, his skin was pale and the sun ripping out reddish reflections on his hair, Mycroft hugging him, smiling happily, the face, congested by anger, of his father, Mycroft, sitting in the dark, crying...  
Greg was a temperamental man, always had been. He rarely resorted to physical violence, but he tended to curse and shout when he lost his temper, some objects had passed away after some heated argument. Had he ever lost control with Mycroft? Was that why the young man had decided to take him out of his life? But Mycroft, though he avoided conflict and reacted badly to shouting and swearing, retreating slightly and hiding behind his icy facade, had never shown any sign of fearing him. Perhaps he had simply grown bored of him and asked his uncle to help him out?

He took a shower when she got to her apartment, feeling better as he changed her clothes. After checking that he didn't have any calls from work and making herself some tea, ignoring Mycroft's multiple messages, he decided he couldn't put off any longer the call he'd been trying not to make for hours. Ignoring the tremor in his hands, he tried to make his voice sound as usual when they picked up the phone on the other end.  
\- Greg! How are you?  
\- I'm fine, Mom, how are you?  
\- Okay, baking some cookies. We have the monthly neighborhood association meeting today.  
\- Oh, that's nice. It's good to get along with the neighbors. This is something we didn't used to do in our old neighborhood, right?  
His mother was quiet for a moment. Greg could feel her breathing tone tense slightly, as it always did when he talked about the old neighborhood or things that happened in years ago.  
\- No, well. Things were different there. Why do you say that?  
\- Oh, nothing in particular. I just... I went by there yesterday, you know? And I thought it was lucky that Aunt Muriel left you her inheritance and you could move in...  
\- Yes. Yes, aunt Muriel was always very generous with me.  
\- Yes, although... Wasn't her name Nancy? I seem to remember you saying Nancy...  
\- Oh, yes, Nancy. Muriel Nancy... And what were you doing over there? Work?  
\- No. No, I had a few days off accumulated. I've been walking around. Mrs. Tyler sends her love, by the way. I went to Oxford, too.  
\- Ox... Oxford!? Why would you go there?  
Her mother's voice sounded nervous, and he felt guilty for a moment.  
\- You see, it's funny. I was talking to a fellow cop who'd be willing to swear that we worked there together. Isn't that strange?  
\- Your buddy's confused, no doubt.  
\- Sure. See, there's something else I wanted to tell you. I'm seeing someone.  
\- Oh, really? That's wonderful. Who is she?  
The relief in her voice from the change of subject was palpable. Greg swallowed his spit.  
\- Actually, Mom, it's a he. A man.  
\- What? It can't be...  
\- Yes, several months ago now.  
\- Greg, you're not a... I don't know what's wrong with you, but you can't go back to... You're not like that! You married Lisa! You can't be...  
\- What can't I be, Mom? Gay?  
His mother exhaled loudly, as if the word was an unforgivable insult.  
\- No, Greg, you're not that. You're normal! Not one of those deviants! He assured us you were cured! It was a mistake, we all make them. But you were cured and we forgave you. You can't go back to...  
Greg squeezed the phone in his hand as he tried to breathe, feeling dizzy.  
\- Who told you he was cured, Mom? And how was he supposed to do that?  
\- Mr. Verner, he said what... oh, greg, you don't understand. You can't do this to me, not again. You have no idea what your father and i have suffer for you!  
\- Did you suffer? How, precisely, I made you suffer. Maybe you can explain it to me. Because looking back there are many things I don't understand.  
The silence was so long that Greg looked at the phone to make sure his mother was still on the other end.  
\- You... You were always so normal, such a good boy. And so handsome. All the girls were after you. And then one day you come home from Oxford and tell us you're in a relationship with another man. It was a shock to us. Your father was devastated! We didn't raise you like that... We told you that was unnatural, of course, but you insisted on going along with... that. It was not acceptable. Our son could not be a sodomite! What would the neighbours say? And our friends? We'd be the shame of the family!  
\- So you threw me out of the house?  
\- Greg, we could not accept such abominable behavior under our roof! We did it for your own good, so you'd understand...  
Greg bit his knuckles, trying to hold back a sob. He couldn't recognize his ever-sweet and caring mother in those cold, poisonous words.  
\- And what happened next?  
\- Greg, who cares. We got you back, they cured you and...  
\- Mom!  
\- Oh, it's okay. We had years without knowing anything about you. We hoped you'd come around, but... Just when we'd started to lose hope, this well-dressed, elegant man appeared. He told us that he understood us, and that he could help us. Mr. Verne.  
He told us that you had seduced his nephew. A student. We were horrified. But he was very understandin, he just wanted you both to come to your senses. 

He said he could get you to come home, that you'd be cured and forget all this nonsense. He was a saint. He bought us the house, where we could start over, and he gave us some money, we just had to follow his instructions. You would forget what had happened, you would have a normal life again... We didn't believe him at first but... Greg, we did what we had to do, it was for your own good! When we brought you home you were back to your old self. You didn't even remember that perverted rich kid who used you because he was bored. Greg, whatever it is, we can fix it. You were happy with Lisa! You'll find another woman and...  
Unable to hear another word, he hung up the phone.  
His parents considered him sick, and had consented to someone playing with his brain. And Mycroft, one way or another, had agreed with them. He felt completely empty inside, too angry to feel the pain that would surely follow.

He made another call, before the adrenaline went out of his system and the reality of his parents' contempt and Mycroft's betrayal settled on him, plunging him into depression.  
\- Gregory?  
The Mycroft ' weak, slightly trembling voice increased his anger. He had no right to sound vulnerable, not after what he'd done.  
\- Mycroft. Or should I call you M?  
\- Gregory, please come home, we'll talk and...  
\- No, I don't think so. I gave up everything for you, and you left them use me like a lab rat, manipulate me. And later you showed up at the Yard like nothing had happened, asking me to help you with Sherlock first, pretending to be my friend later. I've never been anything but a toy to you, have I? Something you can have and leave whenever you want.  
\- That's not true, Greg. You didn't... I never wanted you to suffer.  
\- Shut up! God, you're incapable of taking responsibility for your actions, always justifying yourself. You don't even see what's wrong with you, do you? What happened? Did you get tired of me and offer me as a hobby for Eurus?  
\- No! They took Eurus when I was thirteen. I didn't know anything about her or what she could do until I went to work for Rudy. Yes, I knew she was a genius, I knew she was dangerous, but... Please, you have to believe me. You disappeared. I didn't know until later what they'd done to you. You were everything, Greg.  
\- No, don't go there. You have no credibility left. Okay, let's say your uncle was a psychopath who did this without your knowledge. You knew they did something, even if you didn't know what exactly. And then you came to me like nothing had happened, pretending not to know me. They stole part of my life, and you didn't say anything. You know, I loved you, Mycroft, I see now that you was nothing but a manipulative cheat. I'm not going to listen to you anymore. I don't want you near me!  
He hung up the phone, threw it on the couch. He had a sore throat from screaming and wasn't sure of the exact moment he had started crying. He lay down and cried for what seemed like hours, until sleep overcame him.


	10. Chapter 10

Feeling the fatigue in each of his bones, Mycroft sighed, sinking his head into his hands. The migraine had come back with a vengeance hours ago and was threatening to split his head in two. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he would always end up hurting one or the other with his decisions.  
Guilt had become a constant and faithful companion throughout his life, a dull pain, installed in the pit of his stomach . And he didn't want that guilt on anyone else's shoulders. She had not wanted it weighing on her parents' souls, telling them what their daughter had done to many innocents. He hadn't wanted it weighing on Sherlock's soul, telling him what his obsessive little sister had done to his best friend because she stole his attention.  
He didn't want her weighing on Greg's soul, revealing the truth of what he had done.  
No, he could live with the guilt. He was used to that voice living in his subconscious, constantly repeating "If you had...  
If he had kept a better eye on the children, Eurus wouldn't have killed Victor.  
If he had been more attentive to Eurus, instead of being busy being a surly, grumpy pre-teen, he would have realized that something was wrong with her much earlier.  
If I'd been a better brother for Sherlock, he wouldn't have ended up playing with drugs.  
If I'd been a better partner to Greg, he wouldn't have left.  
Too many "ifs."  
He loved them, and if he had to keep secrets from hurting them, he would. And yet, sometimes... Sometimes he envied them and their blessed ignorance, which allowed them to sleep at night without nightmares, without memories scratching at their insides.  
I understood Gregory's anger, and yet he had often wished that he could forget too. Withdrawing the silent tears that had begun to flow, he looked at the telephone. If there was a solution, he thought, breathing deeply. There was a simple, quick solution. He cursed himself for having waited so long to realize it.  
He called Anthea, asking for a helicopter. He exhaled slowly before answering when she, confused and visibly alarmed, asked him to repeat his fate. Then he sent a message to Sherlock, turned off his phone before receiving an answer, and prepared to leave the house.  
************* The doorbell, ringing insistently, woke him up. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was already fading, and Greg had to take some time to remember why he was lying in the middle of the day, with his clothes on and his eyes irritated.  
He opened at last to find an anxious-looking John Watson, and Sherlock kneeling in front of his door, lock pick in hand.  
\- What on earth are you doing?  
\- You finally open , Lestrade!  
Sherlock gave him an accusatory look, as if it were the DI's fault that Sherlock had been forced to try and pick his lock. He got up and went into the flat without waiting for an invitation. John followed him with an apologetic look at his friend.  
\- What are you doing here? I'm not in the mood for visitors, Sherlock.  
\- I thought you might not be That's why we're here.  
Greg gave them a confused look and John said, a little uncomfortable.  
\- Sorry for the intrusion. Sherlock got a message from Mycroft and...  
\- Mycroft?  
For answer, young Holmes placed his phone in front of the DI  
'Take care of him. Please.'  
Greg snorted.  
\- So now you're the guardian? I'm fascinated for the Mycroft's ability to always find someone to do his dirty work for him.  
Sherlock sat on the couch.  
\- Yes, he's made an art of delegating tedious tasks. Still, how are you?  
\- What do you think?! I just found out my mother hates me. And that a person I trusted and with whom I was in something like a relationship let someone manipulate my mind and has been lying to me for years. This is not my best week. - Greg stopped. - Sherlock, you... how did you know?  
\- I found some papers about buying a flat in your parents' name among Uncle Rudy's papers. And then I... Wait, you're blaming Mycroft?  
\- What?! Yes, Sherlock, of course I'm blaming Mycroft!  
Sherlock looked down, with the expression of a confused child.  
\- But not... It wasn't supposed to go like this! I mean, I hoped you were angry with me, or that you felt bad about what happened, but I thought Mycroft might finally...  
\- Why the hell would I be mad at you? Your brother said you didn't know anything when we met. Unless he's lying again.  
\- No. I didn't know who you were then, But... Mycroft didn't tell you?  
\- There seems to be too much that Mycroft doesn't tell.  
\- Yes, well I... I didn't know your name, I didn't know who you were when we first met, but... It was my fault you were found. I realised when I discovered the relationship between your parents and Rudy. I realised you were the guy Mycroft had left us for.  
Breathing slowly, trying to stay calm, Greg sat down on the sofa, next to John.  
\- Okay, explain yourself from the beginning, Sherlock. And go slowly.  
\- I... I was 15. I remember Uncle Rudy came home, very angry. I usually never paid much attention to him. He was a very smart man, but he always looked at you like you were a big disappointment. - Sherlock decided to ignore the ironic look that Greg and John shared - he liked too much to tell us what to do and what not to do. Mycroft loved him, but I... Anyway, I heard them talking in the kitchen, Rudy and my parents. He said something about Mycroft having decided to give up everything for a nobody. Apparently they'd been in a relationship for years, and when Rudy told him to end it, for the first time in his life Mycroft rebelled. He said no. Rudy even threatened Mycroft to withdraw the family funds but... He had reneged on us, refusing to live up to what was expected of him, Rudy said. I didn't particularly mind that Mycroft would go into politics or sell flowers on the subway, to be honest but, believe it or not, it was good to have him as a brother. It was good to have someone with whom you could communicate with just a glance, who wasn't shocked by what you used to call my strange sense of humour, and who saw even more than I did by looking at other people. I missed him. I didn't have many friends and he was... Well, he was very different than he is now. He was still reserved and a bit lonely but he was fun and I knew I could count on him. I thought he'd always be there for me. My mother called Mycroft, crying, asking him to come to his senses...  
\- Is that what you meant when you said Mycroft had upset her?  
John's voice briefly brought Sherlock back from his self-absorption.  
\- Huh?  
\- The night we met. He accused you of bothering Mom, and you said it wasn't you who had bothered her.  
\- Yes. I never knew the name of the guy he left us for, but I hated him. I felt betrayed. I didn't understand that I could see Mycroft in a goldfish. I know that during that year Uncle Rudy pushing for the relationship to end. Without success. One day he came home, more nervous than I'd ever seen him, and said both Mycroft and his boyfriend had left Oxford, and they couldn’t find them. A year went by and we didn't hear from them - I mean, from Mycroft and you, Greg. Every time there was a clue as to where you might be, by the time Rudy’s men arrived, you had already left. On my 16th birthday, the phone rang. It was Mycroft. He wanted to check on me and congratulate me. He sounded tired, but happy. He called from a train station, the announcements for departures and arrivals sounded off in the distance as we talked. I don't know if it was an oversight on his part, or if he just trusted me not to rat him out, but that’s how I found out where you were and told Rudy. I'm sorry, Greg, I... I just wanted my brother back. I'm sorry.  
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room, each lost in his own thoughts  
\- Good. It's all right, Sherlock. Just... you were a kid. You wanted your brother home, I understand that.  
\- Yeah, I... But he never really came back. He'd changed, he wasn't himself. He never really trusted me again either. It was like they brought in a robot with my brother's face, all discipline, silence, self-control and work. We rarely saw him smile since then. Much less laugh. I hated him. He made me feel guilty, even though he never reproached me for anything. I couldn't forget his betrayal. There was never anyone else. You make him happy, Lestrade. And I know he cares about you.  
\- That doesn't change the fact that he's been lying to me for years.  
\- He was being nice! You had a new life, the career of your dreams, you were happily married. You had everything you ever wanted, what was I supposed to tell you?  
\- The truth! That all my memories were a lie and that someone had been manipulating my brain!  
\- But it wasn't his fault! You chose! What right did he have to tell you the truth about your life when you had chosen to forget it?  
After the screams of the two men, the sudden silence felt thick and heavy. Greg leaned back in his seat, keeping his eyes on Sherlock.  
\- I'm sorry, what?


End file.
